


Just Cake

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bake Off AU, Baked Goods, Bellarke with baking, Cake, F/M, Modern AU, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, lots of cake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29863017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Written for 100 fics for BLM. Clarke and Bellamy are rivals on a baking show. Somewhere along the way, rivalry turns into love.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 26
Kudos: 105
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	Just Cake

**Author's Note:**

> I've written some unexpected things for 100 fics for BLM, but this has to be one of the most fun! This is definitely the definition of tooth-rotting fluff. And to anyone who hasn't watched "The Great British Bake Off" and doesn't have a clue what's going on, I can only apologise. I hope you like this, prompter!

**My to-do list is getting shorter. Please add to it and raise money for awesome causes thank you<https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co/>**

Bellamy has the upper hand, at first. 

It all starts with a cake. Specifically, it starts with a technically perfect orange madeira cake. Clarke is proud of it. She’s spent years practising for this moment. So yes, she’s feeling confident in her skills, actually.

But then Paul pronounces it  _ bland _ . Her beautiful madeira cake with the moist texture and the soft crumb and the perfect crack and the candied orange decoration.  _ Bland _ .

And Bellamy’s cake? His cake looks like someone just plonked it on the serving board and hoped for the best, she thinks sourly. But his cake, apparently, is unique and exciting and delicious and even, of all things,  _ zesty _ .

She’s never been so mortified in her life.

She gets him back in the technical, evens the score. Of course she does - technical perfection in baked goods is her calling in life. And she’s feeling pretty confident when she produces the most stunning celebration cake which even has little decorative choux buns round the base. She’s going to win star baker for that, isn’t she?

No. Bellamy takes it, the combination of yesterday’s  _ zest _ and today’s simple but effective design clinching the title.

There’s a lot of standing around afterwards, interviews and hugging and the like. And while everyone else is distracted by saying goodbye to Atom, the first baker to leave the tent, Clarke steps up to Bellamy’s side.

“I’ll get you back.” She tells him, plain and simple.

He snorts. “Brave Princess.”

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard me,  _ Princess _ . With all your stupid candied fruits and all that pink marshmallow buttercream.”

She’s smarting, angry, lashes out as best she can. “Well I’ve seen the way you work.  _ Chaos _ . You won’t last once things get serious. No way can you approach patisserie week like that.”

“What’s wrong with a little chaos?” He asks, smirking.

She falters, gapes silently at him. She doesn’t have a comeback for that. He’s infuriating, and his approach to baking is  _ all wrong _ , and she doesn’t understand how someone  _ all wrong _ at baking has beaten her when she’s been practising years for this show.

She’s supposed to win, damn it.

Bellamy presses on before she can collect her thoughts. “Great to know you think I’ll still be here by patisserie week. Thanks for that, Princess. I’ll take the compliment.”

With that he is off, wandering away from her, his stupidly broad shoulders straining against his shirt as he goes.

Damn it. He was right. They already have their schedules - patisserie week is the semi-final. She’s just unwittingly paid her biggest rival in this tent a huge compliment.

She could swear she’s usually better at thinking straight, when her new least-favourite person isn’t riling her up.

…….

She’s determined to get him back in biscuit week. Biscuit week plays to her strengths - the showstopper is a gingerbread building, and that appeals to both her technical and artistic sides. Not to mention she’s fed gingerbread to approximately three hundred strangers at work this week and she’s got the spicing honed perfectly. There will be nothing  _ bland _ about her baking this week.

Day one goes fine. Her Florentines are nothing to write home about, but that’s the way things go with Florentines, isn’t it? Not much to be excited about, in her cynical opinion. Her amaretti are technically perfect and - praise be! - she gets the almond extract spot on and Mary pronounces them  _ full of flavour _ . Another first place in the bag.

She’s just heading to her room in the hotel when she notices something rather interesting. At the other end of the hall, Bellamy is heading to his room. But by his side is another one of the contestants - a somewhat intimidating young woman called Roma.

OK - not quite  _ by his side _ . Honestly, they’re pressed so close together she might as well be in his pocket. Clarke thinks it’s all a bit questionable, really. There has to be some kind of rule against hooking up with fellow contestants. It’s not right, surely?

But then again, she’s also wondering what one has to do to win a night in Bellamy Blake’s bed.

No. She pushes that thought from her mind. She sleeps, more or less, gets up the following morning more determined than ever to clinch the star baker title.

She does it. And against good opposition, too - Bellamy’s gingerbread Colosseum is quite something, yet Clarke’s intricate and detailed fairy-tale castle wins the crown. Finally, she thinks, things are going to plan. And she’s savagely pleased that Roma is the contestant heading home. Roma clearly wasn’t taking the competition seriously enough - if only Bellamy could be sent home with her.

Bellamy wanders over, when everyone is milling about afterwards, talking to camera and tasting each other’s bakes. He nods at Clarke, smirking, then snaps a turret clean off her precious castle.

She frowns. Sure, the bake has served its purpose. She’s won star baker. But he didn’t have to break a turret, damn it.

“Not bad, Princess.” He admits, chewing. He makes even  _ chewing _ look hot, which she thinks is frankly unfair. There’s something really quite mesmerising about his jaw as it works.

“You baked well too.” She concedes, magnanimous. “Might have beaten me again if you’d gotten a good night’s sleep instead of spending last night with Roma.” She says pointedly.

He laughs around another bite of gingerbread. “Come on, Princess, where would be the fun in that?”

“Why are you still calling me that?” She asks, growing petulant.

He laughs louder, points with a half-eaten turret to the crumbling remains of her castle.

Ah. Yes. She’s making this far too easy for him.

…….

She helps him in bread week.

It’s not a big deal. They’re making muffins for the technical - bread muffins, that is. English muffins, she has heard them called. Clarke really doesn’t see the point of them. They’re literally just bread, cut into circles and cooked on the stovetop for no apparent reason other than to make the bakers sweat. They appear to have no other purpose than as a base for eggs benedict. Really, she’s surprised they haven’t died out by now - does natural selection work on baked goods?

Anyway, she’s not here to ask questions. She’s here to win. So it is that she follows the recipe to the letter and produces a perfect batch of twelve with a good quarter-hour to spare.

She sits on her stool and drinks a cup of tea. She likes doing that - she thinks the cool confidence it presents must be intimidating to the other bakers.

But then she hears Bellamy behind her, talking to camera - and to Mel - about how desperately short of time he is, how he can’t fit all his remaining muffins in the pan at once, how he needs to decide between presenting too few or turning up the heat and risking the outsides burning before the middles are cooked.

Clarke ought to ignore him. This problem is of his own making. If he’d got on with the task more efficiently in the first place he wouldn't be struggling now.

But there’s no fun in beating an opponent who doesn’t put up a good fight, damn it. And anyway, no one deserves to turn out a half-batch for the technical. That’s just  _ sad _ .

“Use my stove too.” She offers him, before she can talk herself out of it.

He looks up at her, visibly surprised. “You sure about that, Princess?”

“Yeah. Look, it’s still hot. It’ll be back up to temperature in a minute.” She says, flicking it on, as if it might have been the science of heat retention that was puzzling him, there, not her unexpected kind gesture. It just helps her to have some boring logistics to talk about in moments like this, OK?

“Thanks.” He says. Just that, meek, already carrying his precious muffins over towards her bench.

“No problem. You want me to watch these while you watch the ones on your bench?”

He laughs a little, stiff but smiling. “No. I got this. My muffins, my responsibility. You sit there and drink your tea, Princess.”

She does. She does sit and drink her tea. She watches him work, too, judging him a little for his slightly scatty approach. But mostly she watches his biceps bulge beneath his shirt, his broad shoulders standing out from behind his ridiculous striped apron. He’s annoyingly good-looking, for an arch-rival, and she doesn’t mind admitting it. He does this cute little thing with his eyebrows when he’s concentrating, too, pulling them together into a frown.

Wow. If she’s started thirsting after his  _ eyebrows _ she really is losing her mind. Must be the pressure of the tent, she reasons.

They don’t talk as she sits there, as he darts between her bench and his own. They are not friends, after all. She’s just helping him out to make her ultimate victory all the sweeter.

Or at least, they do not talk until he breaks the silence. 

“Do you think these are ready?” He asks quietly.

“Are you talking to me? I only said you could borrow the stove.” She reminds him, teasing.

He nods, smiling slightly to himself, turns to take the muffins off the heat.

“I’m not here to help you.” She reminds him firmly. “But if I was - I might suggest giving them another minute. You know Paul likes a strong colour on his bread. And you don’t want him to do that thing where he pokes at the inside and says  _ this is raw dough _ .” She thought it would be funny to do a Paul impression, when she started out, but now she’s not so sure.

Bellamy appreciates it, at least. He gives a brief chuckle, a small nod.

And then, she notices, he leaves his muffins on the pan for exactly sixty seconds more.

Minutes later, she is crowned winner of the technical. Of course she is - that’s more or less her brand, by now. Bellamy comes second, though, and everyone seems very excited by that - him most of all, as he claps an awkward hand on her shoulder and thanks her for saving him.

She snorts at that. She didn’t  _ save _ him. She did what any reasonable rival would do - she lent him a pan and a hot stove and a few words of wisdom.

It’s not enough for either of them to get star baker, in the end. Despite Clarke’s best efforts, that title goes to Indra, a quiet and stern-faced woman about her mother’s age. Indra tells the camera crews that she is good at making bread because she likes to eat it with soup, and everyone agrees that’s quite the most words they’ve ever heard her say voluntarily.

And so it is that Bellamy and Clarke live to fight another week.

…….

Clarke doesn’t win the technical in chocolate week. She doesn’t win  _ anything _ \- not star baker, not a handshake, not so much as a passing nod from Paul.

It’s not that she does badly. She turns out some gooey brownies with a pleasing slight crisp crust, gets third place in the technical, covers a red velvet cake with a very neat layer of white frosting and a few tempered chocolate hearts.

But the judges are, unexpectedly, blown away by a new star baker. Roan. Clarke thought him something of a meathead, honestly, and had largely dismissed him as competition. He’s obsessed with the gym and health foods and things like that, and she thinks such people have no place in a contest based on carbohydrates. But the judges love his raw cacao, coconut and blueberry brownies, and simply adore his beetroot red velvet cake.

Who puts a  _ beetroot _ in a cake?

Clarke tries not to get to her. But she feels unsettled, honestly. If a  _ vegetable _ can feature in a star-baker-worthy showstopper, has she really got the situation under control as well as she thought? She has practised so hard for this, and she thought she was prepared for anything. Every year there is someone who wants to make baking healthy, but usually they have gone home by now. Usually they do not win star baker.

She feels lost, nervous. She needs to figure out how to adapt to this new challenger.

“Chin up, Princess.” Bellamy mutters, slipping past her to grab his bag from the lockers.

She frowns at him. “What?”

“Chin up. You’ll get him back next week.”

“Oh. Yeah, you too.”

He nods. She nods. They stand there, nodding foolishly. Bellamy has his bag slung over his shoulder, now, but somehow he has not left.

“Why are you trying to cheer me up?” She dares to ask.

He smirks a little. “You saved my ass with those muffins. I won’t forget it.”

Huh. Well, now. Is this friendship? Is it at least more  _ rivalry _ than enmity?

She thinks it’s probably simpler than that. She thinks it’s probably just two near-strangers standing in a locker room and grinning at each other.

…….

He’s as good as his word. He doesn’t forget that she helped him out with those muffins - he comes through to rescue her in turn the following week.

They’re making trifle - specifically  _ showstopping _ trifle. Trifle ought to suit Clarke perfectly, she knows. It’s about completing a large number of processes in an organised and timely fashion, then presenting the finished product with a little artistic flair. She ought to have this  _ nailed _ .

But she screws up her custard. She can’t explain it - she’s made custard a thousand times and it never turns out lumpy. She figures it must just be the nerves, after Roan took her by surprise last week. She doesn’t know why that’s still bothering her - he looks set to be near the bottom of the pack, this week, whisking desperately away at some coconut cream on the other side of the tent.

Whatever the reason, today, for the first time in her life, her custard turns out lumpy. Just when it matters most.

She bins it and starts again, but it sets her behind schedule. Just a few minutes, but every second counts in the tent. She’s still running late when the final countdown begins, doesn’t start piping Chantilly cream on the top of her nearly-finished trifle until there are mere minutes left on the clock.

And then all at once, Bellamy is at her shoulder, a piping bag already in hand as he scrapes Chantilly cream from her mixing bowl.

“What are you doing?” She asks, flustered and confused.

“Rescuing you. Shut up and accept the help. I’ll take the near side?”

She nods, a little dazed. Bellamy already has the piping bag ready to go and starts work on the other side of the trifle, piping in neat whorls that are a perfect match for hers.

Huh. Maybe he is capable of working tidily, when necessary. Maybe she was wrong to think of him as simply the king of chaos, at first.

“What’s after this?” He asks, when they are nearly done piping.

“Candied peel and rose petals. It’s OK, I’ve got it from here.”

“I’ll take the peel, you take the petals.” He counters.

He’s an annoying man, for the record. She doesn’t like it when he tries to boss her around like this - she has always been a woman inclined to take the lead in her own life. And anyway, she really  _ could _ finish it from here. She could throw the toppings on in the last ten seconds, if she needed to.

But as it is, they take forty whole seconds over arranging things artistically, and she has to admit, it’s the better option.

When Bellamy wins star baker that week, Clarke claps louder than anyone. She surprises herself a little with that, but she thinks he deserves it. He’s been there or thereabouts ever since that first week, and she thinks he deserves to win it again on the week he bailed her out with that custard delay.

That’s why she approaches him, afterwards. That’s why she hangs around, loitering just out of shot, while the cameras close in on him having a little emotional moment. It seems the flavours in his trifle were inspired by his family’s Filipino heritage. He talks at length about bringing those influences to a traditional British trifle, about being proud of the fusion of cultures it represents.

Well, now. Clarke can’t banter with him about that, can she? She’s not a total monster, and she thinks he’s quite right to be proud of the statement he’s made this week.

She keeps it more straightforwardly friendly than usual, when the cameras move off.

“Can I taste?” She asks, gesturing at the trifle, trying not to hear the innuendo in her own words. She’s clearly spent too much time in this tent listening to Mel and Sue’s bad innuendos, she thinks.

“Sure. Go for it.”

“I don’t have a spoon.” She admits, apologetic.

He rolls his eyes at her, sets out hunting for a spoon. Except, of course, he cannot find one. That’s no very surprising consequence of his chaotic cooking, Clarke thinks. Naturally he cannot find a spoon.

He hands her a spatula, in the end. She scoops some trifle with it as best she can, balances it carefully, starts eating messily. What is it about this man, that he has such a talent for destroying her dignity?

“It’s delicious.” She says, around a mouthful of coconut sponge. There’s something going on that reminds her of rice pudding, too, and also something sweet and purple. She feels a little ashamed of her ignorance, really, but also grateful for Bellamy introducing her to all these new ideas. She does love to collect new recipes.

That’s why she says it. Not because she’s trying to prolong the conversation, or show him she really does think quite highly of him, or anything silly like that. It’s just because she loves collecting new things to cook.

“Can I get the recipe?” She asks brightly.

“Sure. Phone?” He asks, hand outstretched.

She hands it over to him. She keeps eating her spatula of trifle, a little disappointed. She was hoping that would renew the conversation, but he’s being oddly monosyllabic. What happened to all that boisterous teasing they used to share?

He gives her the recipe by taking photos of all his notes. She watches as he flips through a notebook, zooming in on page after page after page. The whole thing makes her feel a big rush of affection for him, somehow. He’s not as chaotic as she used to think. It’s just that his plans are not like her plans. They simply have very different approaches, and that’s fine.

“There you go.” He hands her phone back at last. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to make sense of it all. I know they say baking is a science but - with this one there are some things you have to go with your gut on, you know? The rice is like that.”

She nods, trying her hardest to understand. But inside she’s  _ horrified _ . Baking  _ is _ a science. It’s all about keeping your head and following the instructions.

And yet, as she licks the last of the trifle inelegantly from the spatula, she knows that this is a dish that came straight from the heart.

“Thanks.” She says, handing the spatula to him with a teasing grin. “That was really great. Here’s your spatula back.”

He laughs. “Cheers, Princess.”

“Congratulations again. Really. I bet your family are really proud. Have you told them yet?”

He shakes his head, biting his lip. She senses there is more going on here. Is this something to do with his oddly reserved mood?

“Bellamy?” She prompts him softly.

“I haven’t told them. Or not - I haven’t told the grandma who taught me to make all this stuff. The Filipino side of the family is my dad’s side. He died when I was really young and I don’t see his parents much. And since we’re only supposed to tell our immediate families about the show - I live with my mum and my sister still. So I’ve only told them. It’s not the same to them. And - and you didn’t ask about any of that.” He says, with a nervous laugh, hands clasped tight at his hips - so tight that Clarke thinks his knuckles must be aching.

She nods, calm, trying for a smile. “So your grandma will have a really great surprise when she watches this episode?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s a nice way to look at it.” He agrees, a little brighter.

She nods again. There’s something she wants to ask. She knows it’s not her place, but she’s always been too curious for her own good.

Screw it. She’s asking.

“You still live with your mum and sister?”

He laughs tightly. “Yeah. Silly, right? I’m way too old to still be living at home. But money’s tight for my mum. And I’ve always felt really responsible for my sister.”

_ My muffins, my responsibility _ . That odd throwaway comment makes a lot more sense to her, now.

“It’s not silly at all.” Clarke tells him firmly. “Your family life is  _ yours _ . If it feels right to you, that’s all that matters.”

He laughs, tighter still. “I’m not sure I’d say it feels  _ right _ . I’m starting to think it might be about time to move out at last. O doesn’t need me fussing over her any more.”

“But it’s hard to leave all the same?” She asks quietly.

He nods, smiling a little more genuinely now. “What about you? Anyone at home cheering you on?”

“No. I live on my own. Only my mum knows I’m here.” She realises how pathetic that sounds, tries harder. “I work at the hospital though. Long hours, lots of people. I don’t get lonely.” She lies through her teeth.

He smiles, soft, understanding. It’s a little unsettling - she’s not used to people seeing straight through the walls she puts up.

And then he reaches out to swipe a thumb gently over her left cheek.

She stops breathing. Her chest quite literally freezes in shock. They’re in the middle of a tent full of cameras and the most beautiful man she’s ever met - who also turns out to be rather kind, it seems - is stroking her face.

It turns out it’s not quite like that.

“You had ube jam, right there.” He whispers.

Huh. So maybe it is a  _ little _ like that. If he only cared about ube jam, she thinks, he would not be whispering. And his hand would most certainly not still be on her face.

He seems to realise that, and she’s sorry for it. He drops his hand, steps back.

“I guess that’s what happens when you eat trifle with a spatula.” She says, hoarse.

“What?” He seems puzzled.

“The ube jam. On my face. Because - spatula.” She concludes, flustered, making vague waving motions near her own face.

“Right. Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He shakes his head, looks away.

“Well, congratulations.” She says, for perhaps the fourth time.

“Yeah, you too.” It’s a comment that makes little sense under the circumstances, but she lets it go. Is it getting hotter in this tent, or is she imagining that?

Silence falls. She should probably walk away, now. This is becoming ridiculous. And what about the cameras? She does not want to become a Daily Mail headline. Some twee innuendo about flirting with spatulas and a racist journalist describing Bellamy - or his food, or both - as  _ exotic _ , probably. That would be horrific.

Bellamy clears his throat. Yes, he’s reminding her to leave. That’s -

“Call me if you need help with the rice.” He says abruptly.

“What?”

“Like I said - I didn’t write much for that part of the recipe. Call me if you need help figuring out the rice.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” She swallows. “Can I get your number then?” She asks, as if she plans to make the rice  _ this week _ , as if she’s going to head home and make this trifle rather than practising for next week.

As if she actually came over here for the  _ recipe _ , and not for Bellamy.

He laughs brightly, relaxing a little at last. “You’ve already got it, Princess. What did you think would happen when I had hold of your phone?”

With that, he is gone, throwing one last grin over his shoulder as he goes to wash his spatula.

…….

She doesn’t call him about the rice. She doesn’t even  _ pretend _ to call him about the rice. She simply calls him, the following morning on the bus to work, and dives straight into a more useful conversation.

“What are you putting in your brioche?” She asks, abrupt, the moment he picks up the phone.

“Hello to you too.” He answers, sarcasm bright in his voice. “I’m very well, thank you. Yes, the weather’s fine. What’s that you were saying about brioche?”

“Bellamy, this is serious. I was going to go for gruyere and bacon but now I’m worried that might not be enough. Does it need some herbs? Thyme, maybe? Or some sautéed shallots? Both?”

“Remind me, do you have a problem with overthinking things?” He asks mildly.

“Bellamy, this is serious. The one thing I keep losing out on is  _ flavour _ . I’ve had two bakes that were  _ bland _ .”

“I know, Princess. I was there.”

“So you understand what’s at stake.”

He sighs. “Clarke.  _ Nothing _ is at stake. It’s a baking show, not life and death. I know it means a lot to you. I know you’ve been preparing for it a long time. I know it feels like the most important thing in your life right now. But it’s  _ just cake _ .”

She’s silent for a long time, processing his words. He’s right. He’s so utterly right. She doesn’t have much else in her life, does she? No partner. Her mother is her only family. She has a circle of friends and colleagues, but she hasn’t really had a  _ best _ friend since Wells was killed in that accident. She’s not great at being close to people. And what else is there for her to pour her energy into right now, besides work and cake?

But it’s not the end of the world. It’s not as important as her day job in the hospital. And it’s certainly not as important as that very much more real and important little snippet of conversation about family she shared with Bellamy late yesterday afternoon.

“It’s just  _ brioche _ , actually.” She corrects him softly.

“Clarke -”

“You’re right. Thank you. I needed to hear that.” She swallows. “How are you? How are your mum and sister? Really proud, I bet.”

“Yeah. They got more excited about the whole cross-cultural trifle thing than I expected. They’re really happy for me.”

“They love you.” She says simply. She senses that they probably don’t tell him that as often as they could. It sounds like his life revolves around them, but that he doesn’t always get a lot back.

“Yeah, something like that. Thanks, Princess. I have to go - I’m walking into work right this second. Let’s chat about brioche later, yeah?”

They do chat about brioche later. He calls Clarke up that evening, just as she’s starting to wonder about making a practice batch of her savoury brioches. She goes all in, bacon and cheese and herbs and shallots and a vast quantity of black pepper.

She calls him back the following evening, when they’ve been proved and baked and mostly eaten.

“They turned out awesome.” She tells him proudly. “Definitely not bland. I’m really happy with them. Wish you could eat one.”

“I’ll try one this weekend.” He promises easily.

Right. Yes. They are tent friends. Friends who will see each other this weekend, not friends who drive around to each other’s homes to eat brioche together. And anyway, he lives in a different city. Stupid of her to hope there might be some way they could see each other before then.

While she stays silent, he presses on. “You called at just the right time. I’m about to start practising. You want to switch to facetime so you can look around the kitchen and tell me I’m chaotic as hell?”

She agrees right away - not because she wants to judge his kitchen, but because she just really likes looking at his face.

…….

The weekend rolls around. Clarke gets a handshake for her savoury brioches. She’s so excited about that, so relieved to have excelled on flavour for a change, that she doesn’t even mind when Indra pips her to the star baker title.

…….

Clarke is feeling pretty confident, heading into pastry week. Pastry is another very technical skill and she’s expecting to produce good things. She’s done a lot of practice, this week, on facetime with Bellamy. This is the week she comes out on top and collects her second star baker crown - she can feel it.

She’s right. She’s right, and she is crowned star baker, and she can feel the smile splitting her face. She’s -

She’s stunned into sadness by the news that Bellamy is going home.

She doesn’t believe it. She  _ won’t _ believe it. Yes, sure, his pork pie sprung a leak. But there’s no way Bellamy is going home. Bellamy, who has won star baker twice. Who belongs with her in the final.

Who just belongs with her in general, she’s starting to think in her weaker moments.

She can’t cry. She mustn’t cry. Crying because her new best friend is leaving a stupid baking show would be  _ foolish _ . But good god, she’s going to miss him.

Everyone else is hugging him, now. Even  _ Paul _ is hugging him. There’s a sort of big huddle of humanity crowding round Bellamy, all arms reaching out for him. He’s a popular baker in the tent and he’ll be much missed by everyone, not just by Clarke.

But privately, she suspects that she will miss him most of all.

She waits for the crowd to clear. And then she walks over to him, slowly, still not sure what to say.

“They’re wrong.” She begins, when she’s standing right in front of him. “They shouldn’t send you home. You -”

“Leave it, Clarke.” He says, with a sad smile.

Then he hugs her. He steps forward and engulfs her in his arms, squeezing her tight, pressing his face right into her neck. It’s easily the best hug she’s ever had in her life, she decides at once.

He pulls back too soon for her liking.

“It’s OK, Princess.” He tells her, carefully light. “They had to send me home. It was the only choice. Everyone else smashed the showstopper. I had a leaky pork pie that was dry in the middle and soggy on the bottom at the same time.” He reminds her, laughing a little at himself.

“It was a silly challenge. No one makes  _ hand raised pork pies _ for fun.”

“Yeah, they’re not exactly ube jam.” He laughs. “But I knew what I was signing up for. I should have practised harder. We both know you practise more than I do.”

She shakes her head. That’s not relevant. She practises more because that’s who she is. It doesn’t make her the better baker, out of the two of them.

“I’m going to miss you.” She admits, feeling small. “You’re not supposed to go home this early. You’re supposed to still be here for patisserie week.” She jokes, remembering their first conversation.

“It’s OK. You’re going to go on without me. You’re going to win this thing.” He tells her, firm.

She nods, tearful, trying her hardest to look brave. It’s just cake, she reminds herself. She’s going to need to remember that when he’s gone.

“I’ll call you every day.” She tells him urgently. “I’ll tell you all the news. And we can still practise together. Unless - unless you don’t want that, now you’re going?” She asks, horrified. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? He might find it upsetting to hear what’s going on in the tent without him. And he might not want to practise a load of baking now he’s not competing any more.

“I’d like that.” He says softly. “I’ll miss you too, you know.”

He gives her a last, long hug. They go their separate ways - only to bump into each other in the locker room shortly after, and share an  _ actual _ last hug. A few more last words, too, silly jokes about Princesses and assorted good wishes.

Clarke is on the train home when her phone rings, Bellamy’s name flashing across the screen. She rushes to the end of the carriage, aware that she’s probably not supposed to talk about the bake off in earshot of so many people.

“Bellamy? Is everything OK?” She asks, urgent. Why the hell is he calling her already? Is he having some kind of crisis? So much for last hugs and last words, she thinks. At this rate they’ll speak to each other more than ever.

“Yeah. I’m doing fine. It’s just cake.”

“Pie, actually.”

He laughs. “Whatever. I was calling to congratulate you. I realised I never did. With all the drama of leaving, I never told you well done. You did great, Princess. I smuggled out a slice of your winning pie and I’m eating it now.” He tells her brightly.

She grins to herself. She’s pleased she managed to cheer him up - or that her pie managed to cheer him up, perhaps. She doesn’t like to think of him going home, sad, to a mother and sister who take him somewhat for granted.

“Thanks, Bellamy. Take care. Enjoy your pie. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Not if I call you first.”

She laughs. It’s a silly joke, strained and a little childish. But it’s also  _ warm _ , she thinks - him making it quite clear that he wants to speak to her just as much as she wants to talk to him.

In short it is  _ Bellamy _ , and she’s really rather fond of him.

…….

They chat a lot, as Clarke prepares for spice week. She’s feeling nervous about this one. It’s not her natural strength and watching Bellamy leave last week has really brought it home to her that anyone can be sent home any week. Being a past star baker will not save her. No one gets to the final if they have a bad week.

She cuts it a little fine. She thinks she is nearer the bottom than the top - and with only five people left, that means she fears she might be in the bottom two. She texts Bellamy that thought while she is waiting for the verdict, and he texts her back a picture of himself grinning next to a loaf of banana bread and the words  _ just cake _ .

She stays. John is sent home instead, grumbling about it as he goes - apparently his partner Emori  _ likes _ to have lots of chili in a chocolate cake. She thinks his recipe is awesome, even if the judges disagree.

Clarke thinks that Emori is either a very long-suffering woman or else she has seen hidden depths to John that no one else has the slightest idea of.

Amidst all this, Clarke finds that she does not much mind watching Roan be made star baker. She remembers being horrified, the first time he won, at the idea she had been beaten by a vegetable - or at least, by a man  _ using _ vegetables. But this time he has put ginger and turmeric in a lemon cake and she’s not all that bothered. She wishes him good luck with his health fads, really, even though she will not be adopting them in her own baking any time soon.

She’s got better things to worry about. She calls Bellamy to thank him for his support, to ask after the banana bread, to hear him say that he spoke to his sister about the idea he might move out soon and she didn’t completely freak out at the news.

That’s more important, really, isn’t it? All this in the tent is just cake -  _ important  _ cake, cake she cares about deeply.

But it’s just cake all the same.

…….

Clarke has a plan for patisserie week. The semi final. The last obstacle between her and a place in the final.

It’s a plan that starts on Monday night with Bellamy on facetime.

“I’m going to get the signature out of the way tonight. Then I’ve got the rest of the week to practise the showstopper.” She tells him, stirring gelatine into her mousse.

“Clarke. You’re  _ you _ . Do you really need that many attempts at a choux tower?”

“It’s got to be perfect. I want to win this one, Bellamy. I want another star baker and this is my week.”

He doesn’t argue with that. He makes a sort of humming noise. “You’ll smash it. I know you will. Not like those other  _ chaotic _ bakers.”

She laughs, starts pouring mousse into moulds. The quicker she gets these in the fridge, the more time she has sitting around chatting to Bellamy before the next step.

“I mean it, Clarke. You’ll do great. And then I’ll get to see you at the party for the final the week after.”

She nods, grinning. She’s been looking forward to that. And she’s particularly looking forward to seeing him in the flesh because she still hasn’t dared to say anything to Bellamy about maybe hanging out in person - they do live a couple of hours apart and anyway, isn’t that the kind of behaviour that suggests more than just a tent friendship?

To be fair, she supposes they crossed that line around the time they started calling each other every day.

“It’ll be great to see you. But you should be in the tent with me for the final.” She says. It’s almost automatic, by now, to add a comment about the injustice of his departure to every conversation. She still seems far more bitter about his leaving than he is, to be honest.

Yeah. Maybe there’s a reason for that.

“Yeah. Maybe while we’re there we can make plans for a meet up sometime? Contestants do that, right? You see it on the  _ afterwards _ pictures every year. And I hear Murphy and Raven are already hitting the town together.” He says - a little too carefully, she thinks.

“Sounds great.” She says simply.

He smiles. She smiles back at him.

And then her kitchen timer starts beeping, and the moment breaks.

…….

Patisserie week is indeed her week.

Her entremets are faultless, and she wins a handshake. Another first in the technical. And then the showstopper, her choux tower standing proud and tall while all around her others soften and crumple.

Hah. That’s why she cooked her eclairs just a little longer than usual.

It’s a mistake Bellamy would have made, she thinks fondly. He’d have taken the choux out of the oven when it  _ looked _ ready, when he felt in his heart that it was done. Or rather - he’d have tried to, and she’d have tipped him the wink and suggested cooking them a minute more. That’s what they do, isn’t it? They work together. They help each other out. She gives him tips about cooking times and he sends her photos of  _ just cake _ .

She gets star baker. But the first thing she does? Even before she hugs Mary and accepts her congratulations? She goes to shake hands with Roan, who was not far behind her, and who made choux for the first time in his life this week.

She’s learnt a thing or two about cordiality and cooperation, since she entered the tent.

…….

The final is tense. Clarke, Indra, Roan. Indra gets the upper hand in the signature, with a batch of her daughter’s favourite tartlets. But then she crumples in the technical, while Clarke wins through to take first place. Roan, meanwhile, drifts along in the middle of this very small pack.

Bellamy arrives early for the Sunday tea party - he arrives very early indeed, calling Clarke while she’s in makeup waiting to be readied for the show.

“It’s me.” He says, quite unnecessarily, when she picks up the phone.

“Are you OK? Is everything -”

“I’m here.” He interrupts her. “Just outside. Got here a bit early. Wanted to wish you luck before it all kicks off.”

She shakes her head, already jumping to her feet and heading to look for him. She can get her face done later, but seeing Bellamy cannot wait. She can’t believe he’s here - what? -  _ seven hours _ early just to wish her luck.

Actually, she can. She’s fast coming to realise that such generous, big-hearted gestures come naturally to him.

She sees him standing there, flings herself right into his arms. She hugs him tight for a long time, trying to decide how to proceed. Should she throw caution to the wind and simply kiss him? No, probably not a great idea. This is a big day. No sense in making herself nervous about something else before the final challenge. She should just enjoy this lovely hug and then catch up with him later.

_ Kiss him _ later, maybe, when all this cake is through.

“You feeling OK?” He asks softly against her neck.

“Yeah. It’s just cake.” She reminds him, laughing.

“You’re right. But you’re allowed to be nervous. It’s a big day.”

“I am nervous.” She concedes. “But I’m also really happy to see you. I’m really looking forward to the tea party after. Catching up with everyone is more important than cake.” She meant to say  _ catching up with you _ but backed out at the last moment, a little frustrated with herself.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He agrees easily.

He gives her one last squeeze, pulls back from the hug.

“Go on, Princess. Go get ready. Go win this thing.”

“I will.” She says, calm and confident. She’s been preparing for this for years.

…….

She doesn’t win it.

That’s how it ends. She does not win. She does not hold the trophy aloft, doesn’t give the victor’s speech. She’s been preparing for this for years, and she  _ does not win _ .

She’s not that surprised, actually. It was very close between her and Roan. They produced near-faultless tea party showstoppers. The judges’ only criticisms were that her sandwich fillings were unimaginative, and that one of Roan’s sponges was a little dry. And on the back of that, she suspected that Roan would win. He’s got imagination in bucketloads. He’s shown the nation that a gym obsessive who likes baking with vegetables can also work with choux, can produce delicate piping. He’s a better baking story, and he’s had a more moving baking journey.

Clarke’s had a more important  _ personal _ journey, though. She’s learnt a lot about what actually matters in life - love and friendship rather than loaves and frosting. She’s learnt to cut herself some slack, too, and to laugh at herself once in a while.

Most of all? Most of all she’s learnt that she really wants to kiss Bellamy.

That’s the strongest feeling surging through her chest, at the moment. Not the disappointment of losing. But the excitement of new beginnings, a growing sense that she has won the most important thing here.

She doesn’t hang around to speak to the cameras. She can give her gracious speech about Roan’s excellence later. For now, she strides straight into the crowd, heading directly for Bellamy’s arms.

“It should have been you.” He says, reaching out for her. “That sponge was -”

She cuts him off with a kiss, hard and fast, surging up on her tiptoes to reach his lips. He kisses her back without hesitation, gentle yet urgent, cupping her head with his hand. He tastes like the chocolate orange meringue buttercream on her last batch of bite-sized cakes, she muses. He  _ already _ tastes like that. As if he made it some kind of pressing priority to go taste her bakes right away.

The thoughtfulness of that gesture is doing funny things to her insides. Or maybe it’s more the fierceness of this kiss. He’s pressing right up close to her, now, hips flush against hers. It’s probably far too much for such a public place.

This probably will become a Daily Mail headline, she muses. But she finds that she does not greatly care.

She keeps kissing him. She lets her hands tangle in his hair, hears a small sigh escape her lips. This is -

“So  _ you’re _ the young lady who hasn’t forgiven Mary and Paul for sending him home.” A bright voice interrupts them.

Bellamy pulls back at once, visibly flustered. Clarke turns to look at the new arrival.

“Hi. Mum. Sorry - this is Clarke.” Bellamy mutters, hands shooting back from her waist to clench at his own hips, that nervous stance she has grown so familiar with.

“I figured as much.” Bellamy’s mother sticks her hand out in Clarke’s direction. “I’m Aurora. Pleasure to meet you, Clarke. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Mum -”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.” Aurora says, smiling affectionately.

“But I will.” Another person joins the party. Clarke recognises her as Octavia from the background of some of her facetime calls with Bellamy.

“O -”

“Is it true that Bellamy’s moving out to live with you?” Octavia pipes up, overexcited. She must be in her late teens at least Clarke thinks, but she still has a youthful air of exuberance. “Is it true that you’re going to get married and have five kids? Is it true that -”

“I think that’s enough, Octavia.” Aurora says firmly.

Silence falls, sticky and heavy. Was Octavia serious about all that stuff? Five kids? Five is a lot of kids. That’s the only thing Clarke really objects to about the whole suggestion, honestly.

Bellamy clears his throat loudly. “We haven’t really had chance to discuss anything like that yet.” He says, careful.

“But you said you were moving out. I thought you meant moving in with your new girlfriend.” Octavia protests.

Clarke comes to his rescue. That’s how this works - they rescue each other.

“We haven’t discussed that, either.” Clarke says mildly. “We’re still figuring things out. But - I like your brother a lot. I’m not going to hurt him or take him away from you forever or anything like that.”

Octavia nods, apparently satisfied. Aurora starts shepherding her away, apologetic and sheepish.

Silence falls again. Clarke looks up at Bellamy, who seems to be fighting some kind of internal battle.

She takes a deep breath. She can do this. She can ask. She might as well - it’s just a question. More serious than cake, yes, but the world will not end if he says no. He’s not the kind of guy who would hold it against her.

“I know it’s way too soon but - I do have more space in the flat than I need. And you have been talking about maybe moving out. Do you - maybe want to move in with me?”

“God yes.” He says at once, laughing, reaching out to pull her in for a quick, messy kiss. “That sounds perfect. We can laugh all the time and you can make that perfect pie for dinner every night.”

“Only if you make that trifle for dessert every night. Still the best thing I’ve eaten on this show.”

“No.” He protests, comedically firm. “What about those chocolate orange cakes you just made today? I need more of those in my life.”

“They’re just cake, Bellamy.” She teases, brows raised.

He laughs, reaches in for yet another kiss. Clarke kisses him back for a moment, relaxed and truly happy. She might not have won a baking show today, but she’s won something far more important.

It is time, she decides, to introduce Bellamy to her mother. It seems to be a day for meeting the family.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
